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We come back from our vacation to a completely different household: the oldest one, the middle child and the oldest one’s girlfriend have been managing things for over two weeks. The food in the fridge is strange, bought from unknown stores. The kitchen table resembles the hub of a shady trading scheme, with monitors all around and power cords dividing the space at waist height. Below the sink, the canine and feline are scrapping.

“They’re fighting?” I say.

“Yes, this is normal now,” the middle child says.

The dog corners the cat, over near the back door. The cat rears up on its back legs and bites the dog’s left ear. The dog shakes the cat off and chases it in circles the kitchen table, avoiding cables.

“Normal maybe, but not typical,” I say.

The feline turns on its spine, adopting a submissive posture to draw the dog in. The dog falls for it, and the cat sinks two sets of claws into the dog's snout. The canine retreats, with the cat dragged behind, hooked underneath.

“I liked it better when they avoided one another,” I say.

“I think they’re having fun,” the oldest one remarks. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

My wife walks in.

“I expected the scaffolding removal,” she notes.

“They suggested waiting for rain,” I explain, “to confirm the roof repair.”

“But I told them I couldn’t wait,” she says.

“Yes, I passed that on, but they still didn’t come,” I add. Scaffolding is expensive, until you want it gone, at which point they’re happy to leave it indefinitely at no charge.

“Can you call them again?” my wife says.

“I will, just as soon as …” I reply.

The only time the dog and cat are at peace is just before mealtime, when they agitate in concert to push for earlier food.

“Stop fighting!” my wife screams. The animals halt, turn, look at her, and then roll out of the room in a snarling ball.

The pets battle on and off all morning. Sometimes it seems more serious than fun, but the feline can easily to escape through the flap and it returns repeatedly. To escape the commotion I go to my shed, which is freezing cold, left without heat for a fortnight. Finally I return to the main room, amid the screens and the wires and the children and pets.

The sole period the pets stop fighting is before their meal, when they agitate in concert to get food earlier. The cat walks to the cupboard door, settles, and looks up at me.

“Miaow,” it says.

“Food happens at six,” I tell it. “Right now it’s five.” The cat begins to knead the cupboard door with its claws.

“That's the wrong spot,” I say. The dog barks, to back up the cat.

“Sixty minutes,” I declare.

“You’ll cave in eventually,” the oldest one observes.

“I won’t,” I insist.

“Meow,” the feline cries. The canine barks.

“Ugh, fine,” I relent.

I give food to the pets. The dog eats its food, and then crosses the room to watch the cat eat. After the cat eats, it turns and takes a casual swipe at the canine. The dog gets the end of its nose beneath the feline and flips it upside down. The cat runs, halts, turns and attacks.

“Enough!” I yell. The dog and the cat pause to glance at me, before carrying on.

The following day I rise early to sit in the quiet kitchen before anyone else wakes. Even the cat and the dog are asleep. Briefly the sole noise is my keyboard.

The eldest's partner enters the room, dressed for work, and gets water from the sink.

“You’re up early,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I have to go to a photoshoot later, so I need to get some work done, if it runs long.”

“You’ll enjoy the break,” she notes.

“Indeed,” I say. “Meeting people, talking.”

“Have fun,” she says, heading out.

The light is growing, showing a gray day. Leaves drop off the large tree in bunches. I notice the turtle in the room's corner. We exchange a sorrowful glance as a snarling, rolling ball begins moving slowly down the stairs.